Hope for the Best, A Dream Deferred
by Xanatose
Summary: Is hope, in the face of despair, an illusion? If so, would it not be best to face the truth, though it lead us to misery?
1. Hope for the Best, A Dream Deferred

 "**Hope for the Best / A Dream Deferred"**

            A short story by Xanatose.

            With thanks to Bad Ronald, Blue Taboo, Jeff Alan, Serena, and SuPeRnOvA145.

            Based on characters and situations created by Hideaki Anno and Yoshiyuki Sadamoto.

            _The writer of this story does not clam ownership over the characters and concepts on which it is based, and only seeks to honor the original creators, Hideaki Anno and Yoshiyuki Sadamoto, by expanding on their ideas.___

            _This story contains references to the anime series "Neon Genesis Evangelion" up to episode twenty-four, and diverges from the original storyline afterward.  Though it is not necessary to watch these episodes before reading this short story, it may be more enjoyable to do so.  No familiarity with the Manga version is necessary to enjoy this story._

            _EVA, EVANGELION, EVANGELION CHARACTERS __and related concepts are Copyright (c) 1995-2003 Gainax Co., Ltd.  The original story "Hope for the Best / A Dream Deferred" is Anti-Copyrighted.  No profit has been or will be made from this publication.  Permission is granted by the author to copy and distribute it at will for non-profit purposes._

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            _Shinji Ikari stole into his room quietly, gently sliding his door closed—not for fear of awakening anyone in the apartment, for he was quite alone that night—but so as not to disturb the silence which had descended over his home._

            _His hands wrapped around a small side-arm; a spare his guardian owned and kept hidden in her underwear drawer.  Misato was gone tonight.  She had been working later and later hours for reasons she would never discuss.  He no longer believed he could speak with her anymore.  No—to say that wasn't enough.  Now he was no longer able to face her.  Not after what she had said; when she had spoken so cruelly of the only person who had ever loved him._

            _He couldn't bring himself to forgive her.  How could he when he couldn't forgive himself?  Even if Nagisa was the Seventeenth.  It was too hard._

            _Everything was much too hard.  That was why he was doing this now._

            _He sat on his bed slowly, easing himself onto the sheets, fearing to upset the neatness of the room for some foolish reason.  Surely it wouldn't matter in a few minutes?  Not after what he would do?_

            _Pulling a single bullet out of his pocket, which he had also procured from his guardian's room, he fumbled with the weapon—as only a gun novice would—until he felt he had properly loaded it.  He turned to the clock._

            _It would be midnight in five minutes._

            _It seemed appropriate to wait until the hour was struck.  He spent the next few minutes staring forward from his bed to a spot on his door, wondering why people thought they could "kill" time.  Time, he thought to himself, couldn't be killed—it could only be used—and he would use his last few moments waiting._

            _Finally, when he felt the moment had come, he tilted his head back so he faced his ceiling—the same ceiling he had stared at for hours at a time on other nights—and placed the now loaded weapon under his chin._

            _He stole a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.  The hour would strike in a few seconds._

            _Settling into a comfortable position on his bed, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger._

            His eyes flew open, and his breath was caught in his throat.  He pulled the trigger again.

            And again.

            Air ejected from his chest in a hushed gasp as a single tear crept down his right cheek.  With quickening gulps of air he pulled the gun down and looked at it closely.  It had misfired.  It was no wonder Misato never used it.

            But as he was prepared to put the weapon down when, without warning, it went off.  Startled, the boy dropped the gun and jumped back, flinging his legs onto his bed, pressing his back against the wall with white knuckles.

            Staring at the new hole in his floor with quick breaths, a small whining sound—an anguished cry uttering forth from his own mouth—was just audible before he collapsed.

            Time seemed to stretch from a few moments, to a few minutes, to a few hours, before the boy finally stopped sobbing on his bed.  He looked at the clock.

            Hours had past, and the new day had begun, the moments still ticking away...

            A few minutes later, he was outside of his apartment complex, running through the streets of Tokyo 3 in his school clothes.  In his panic he had neglected to bring a coat, but didn't notice as his quickly beating heart kept his body warm.  Adrenaline powered his body for the first few blocks.  When that left him, a quiet desperation powered him on the rest of his trip to the local train station.

            Once he was there he used what little pocket change he had to get onboard.

            Passengers looked over their shoulders to watch as he faced away, and avoided his eyes when he turned to them with shy curiosity.  He was reminded of two children, huddled in chairs, laughing cynically at his discomfort, and quickly turned back to stare at his clinched hands.  After a few minutes he stopped glancing around the train car and resigned himself to looking out the window on the opposite side of his seat.  In the window he stared at his vague reflection.  In a few minutes he would arrive at his destination, and he wouldn't want to look poorly despite what he would have to say.  His eyes were very puffy from the tears that he now worked to get under control and he tried to comb back some of his disheveled hair with his palm, and straighten out his wrinkled clothing.  He had been sleeping in them before he awoke to try to end his life—

            He quickly stopped that line of thought and changed the subject.

            He tried to distract himself with encouraging thoughts of what was to come.  He imagined that when he arrived at the apartment, he was sure to be let in despite the time.  What he had to say was of such importance that he wouldn't be turned away.

            Of course, no matter how much he told himself this there was still an uncertainty born of his own self-doubt.  Why would this person care?  Who was Shinji to think that he could expect so much?

            However, as the train came to a slow stop, he realized he wouldn't have started the journey if he didn't have hope in the first place.  Hope would see him through.

            After he disembarked the train, he felt slightly better.  The cool night air calmed him considerably and stimulated his senses, leaving his body somewhat alert to his surroundings.  He walked the last few blocks trying to contain his inner turmoil—lest it should erupt.  If it did, he believed it would leave him crippled on the side of the street with no one to help him.

            At length, he reached his destination and knocked humbly on the unassuming door before him.  He waited patiently for a few minutes, imagining that the time was responsible for his wait.  Of course, he realized, it was unrealistic to expect anyone to be up at this time of night.  He was about to knock again when the sound of the lock bolt sliding open reached his ear, and his hand—which had been raised in preparation for another knock—flew back to his side in embarrassment.

            The door gently opened—like a warm friend, presenting a gift—and there stood the only person Shinji felt he could talk to about his problems.

            Kaoru smiled at him, and bade him enter.

            Bowing respectfully, Shinji crossed the threshold, remaining silent in his thoughts.

            Kaoru had meanwhile closed the door and led the boy to his kitchen where he offered Shinji a cup of tea.  The offer was accepted with a silent nod, as Shinji was still trying to sort out everything he would say.

            He'd spent a night in the Fifth Child's home a few nights before, and had opened up to Nagisa so much that he was sure he could now continue without fear.

            There was no one else to go to, but then he would have come to the red eyed boy first even if there was.

            Shinji wanted to begin with his feelings about Rei.  How terrified it had been to discover that she was of his blood; created from the blood of an angel and his mother.  How, even before he could absorb this shocking news, he became witness to the murder of each of the clones by the hands of Ritsuko Akagi.  He wanted to talk about how he was afraid to speak with her now, and didn't know if he could ever see her as a friend again.

            Then he wanted to talk about Asuka.  About how he had always wanted to understand her, but had always failed to reach because of his own fear of rejection.  She had pushed him away until he was no longer able to help, and when at last he offered her comfort he became privy to the greatest insult he had ever received from her: she said she hated him.  She then attempted suicide—just as he had some minutes ago—and now lay comatose, unresponsive to the world; she was lost to him.

            And finally he would talk about Misato.  The woman had taken him in when he first came to Tokyo 3 and had tried to act as his guardian.  She had failed, and was continuing to fail even as he thought to himself.  Where was she when he had retrieved a gun from her room?  She had ran away from him just as she had always told him not to, and was racing about NERV for her own reasons.  He still wanted to talk to her, but he couldn't.  Not after she had been so cruel.  After what she had said at the beach—

            Dark blue eyes flew open at this last thought, and a lonely, despondent boy found himself looking across the small wooden table to the image before him.

            Kaoru's eyes were closed as he sipped tea from a cup in his hands, but when he lowered the cup and opened his eyes he saw that Shinji was cringing in pain.  Moving around the table as Shinji began to cry, he put his arm around the boy's shoulder, which shuddered at the touch, and asked what was wrong.

            Shinji, his confused mind drowning in misery, wanted to give the answer.  Yet he found he couldn't.  How could he express what he felt?  Words could not describe the depths of hopelessness he had fallen to at the realization that none of this was real.  How could it be, when he had killed Nagisa a few days ago?

            In a dim corner of his subconscious mind, he realized with a growing sense of despair, that time could not only be used.  

            It could also be wasted.

            He began to wonder if hope—the blind hope he was wishing for now, even in the face of the misery that was his reality—was really just a lie.  If it was, then wasn't it better to face the truth?  The sad, desperate truth which had led him to commit suicide?

            As he sat there in Kaoru's comforting arms, he considered these questions, but found no answers…

            _His head snapped back with the force of impact, throwing his young body—a stone cast off a cliff— wetly on the covers of his bed, amid an expanding pool of red.  There had been no more time.  No more chances.  No more dreams._

            _There had only been pain._

            _And then…_

            _Nothing._

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore—And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over?—Like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

**_Or does it explode?_**

— Harlem, by Langston Hughs (1902 – 1967).**__**


	2. Author's Notes

  
**Authors Notes** for "Hope for the Best / A Dream Deferred"

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            I would like to thank the following individuals for the help they gave me during the production of this story.  **Bad Ronald, who encouraged me to begin writing this short story, and helped in naming it; ****Blue Taboo, who supported me with her comments and suggestions; ****Jeff Alan, who edited the story, attempted to assist me in naming it, and whose critiques helped me improve my writing a great deal since; **Serena**, who was instrumental in helping me decide how to word the ending, by going far out of her way to provide me with a copy of the original short story version of "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge"; and ****SuPeRnOvA145, for those last minute grammar corrections that helped me avoid a great deal of personal embarrassment.  
  
Thank you for helping me out so nicely when I humbly requested your assistance for this story.  This story wouldn't have reached this point without your help along the way.**

* * *

  
  
  


            I hate WAFF.  Well, not all WAFF.  A story which is well written and conceived can contain as much WAFF as it needs.  Indeed, a very good story can contain just about any story element and come out just fine.  Of course, that takes a great deal of skill.  For example, some have said that you can't write what you don't know about.  Wrong.

            But it takes that much more effort.  
  


            Sometimes I wish WAFF writers would put a tad more of that into their work.  Otherwise I wouldn't have written this.  You see, I was reading a certain WAFF Eva fanfic that was so…so…yeah… 

            Well, it could have been better—though I don't mean to disrespect the writer.  I've never gotten around to talking to him, but he seems like a nice guy.  But as I sat before my monitor, smashing my head against the keyboard, I recalled a certain classic of North American literature by the name of "An Occurrence at Owl Creek."  Specifically the part where the guy is tossed off a bridge by an execution squad.  
  


            Yeah, it was that bad.  
  


            I've said in the past that some stories aren't worth starting, let alone finishing, but that's only partially true.  Now it would be true if you were only looking for entertainment.  Some stories just aren't interesting.  But, no matter how bad a story is, you can usually find something to learn from the process.  I've forced myself to read and reread some pretty bad works of fan fiction in my time, and yet I'd do it again if it would mean learning from the mistakes of others, as opposed to my own.  
  


            From those two stories, an overly utopian Asuka/Shinji WAFF, and a great work by Ambrose Bierse, I was inspired to ask certain questions, and to create this short story to form the questions for you.  
  


            Is hope, in the face of hopelessness, a delusion people all too happily fall under in order to continue living?  If it is a lie, wouldn't it be best to face the truth?  Wasn't a key theme of Neon Genesis Evangelion that it was always best to face reality?  Does this still apply to a truly miserable situation?  Are there no exceptions to the rule, in order to spare us this pain?  If not, then is suicide a respectable alternative, or is this another example of escape?  Isn't it, in fact, the ultimate escape?  Then in the absence of hope and escape, what is a person left with?  
  


            It should be noted though, that I didn't answer these questions.  I have my own ideas, and that's good enough.  You can ask them for yourselves now.  
  


            And that's sort of the point, I think, of why I write fan fiction.  I see fan fiction as a way for writers to share the concepts they've taken from a story—all of the questions, doubts, speculations, and most importantly, personal answers—with those who will read.  Forums are all very fine and good for debate, but for creative, intriguing thesis statements, you can't beat a theme from an interesting story.  Sometimes, an essay on your ideas can be a tad too bland.  
  


            Do I think this story is interesting, entertaining, and enlightening?  I can't decide.  That would be arrogant thinking.  Only you, the reader, can make that call.  However, I'll say I'm confident in it enough to finally post it, despite not being proud of it.  An oxymoron, no?  
  


            Well, the fact is there are some aspects of it that I'm sure would remain true to the story itself, but that I feel didn't stay true to concepts which inspired it.  The first, I'll admit is that Shinji dies by his own hand.  Now this was the nature of the story.  It had to happen.  But I don't have to be proud of that.  In my mind recalls the words of Anno—Shinji was so pathetic, he was too afraid to take his own life.  I had to go against cannon characterization, and without proper character development, to end the story in a way that would leave it complete.  
  


            There are other such examples.  I'm sure that an analytical reader will be able to find them, and I'm hoping that those same readers will leave reviews.  I'm all for reviews that are actual reviews, but bad reviews—**_shallow praise_—will just annoy me.**

            Please put some thought into your words, and I promise to take them to heart as I prepare to write my next story.  
  


                         — Xanatose

                             xanatose_x@hotmail.com

                             April 16, 2003

  
PS        Since I encourage everyone to read excellent fiction, I present you with this web address to an online copy of "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge": www.americanliterature.com/SS/SS03.HTML  

(Please note, this address may no longer be correct over time, but is accurate as of the date on which this story was published.)

  
  


            **Anti-Copyright—the original short story, "Hope for the Best / A Dream Deferred" (April 16, 2003) may be copied at will for non-profit purposes, though it should be noted that Gainax still retains the rights to **Eva**, ****Evangelion, ****Evangelion Characters, and related concepts in accordance with their ****copyright (c) 1995-2003.**


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